Crime, Corruption, and Opportunities
by SuiCyde Pill
Summary: This follows the tales of Liberty City, the worst place in America. It would have seemed quite out of the blue for Tommy Vercetti to force Jonhhy Wolfe out of Liberty City, but is it really? Claude Speed is also set to be in the crossfires of a mishap, bu
1. Chapter 1

Chapter One: Liberty City, Where Yours Is Ours

A man sat, draped in an elegant violet overcoat and donning a matching cap, within the safety of his Yardie Lobo. Beneath his seat was a 9mm Baretta, loaded with a single bullet shy of its capacity, for the probability of jamming to be unlikely. Across the street was one of his ladies, doing her nightly rounds of one of Liberty City's most dangerous jobs, prostitution. Then again, there was nothing safe in Liberty City anymore, not since Tommy Vercetti decided to move in and swoop down on the Leone families past territories. Since then the gangs in Liberty had been whittled down to mere remnants of their former glory with the Diablo rarely venturing out of Hepburn Heights, the Yardies ran out of the gangland and settling down in Shoreside Vale, bidding their time; and the Vercetti Family reigning supreme. This was what it had all come down to, from all of the gang wars he'd been dealing in, all of the Colombian SPANK he'd dealt across Staunton Isle, and all of the work he'd done for the Uptown Yardies it had all gone to waste. The Yardies were no more, all of his attempts to contact King Courtney had been to no avail and he was stuck in Portland, in a run-down apartment across the street from where Luigi's Sex Club 7 used to stand, only now _he_ was running the prostitutes about and _he_ had to deal with the threats personally, that's why _he_ sat there in his automobile, watching, waiting.

It never took too long for a trick to turn up and pick up one of his girls, but on this night it seemed like abnormal for one of his girls to be standing for so long. Especially this girl, Cinnamon, she called herself. She flagged down cars with less effort than any other girl, yet she put more heart into it than anyone else. That only meant that she would, naturally, make more money than any other girls on her strip. However, due to a short-temper and a zeal for riches, there were no other girls on her strip and if one turned up they'd turn up out in the Portland Docks. Even she could sense it, the man behind the wheel could tell, she still put an attempt into flagging down whatever vehicles passed, which became even more sparse by the minute, until there was only a single car passing every no and then. It was circling the block and from where the pimp had placed his car, they had probably not even noticed that her pimp was already on her route. It was first instinct for the pimp to go to the aid of his women, whenever they were in any sorts of danger; first, throwing his car down an alleyway behind his building, then relinquishing the car of the burden that the Baretta was for it, before heading out to check up on his girl. This brisk night was not one to linger outside for too long.

"We gotta go." He'd arrived, brushing thick dreadlocks out of his eyes, at her side as soon as the car turned safely down the block for it's fifth or so commute. His chrome-plated tool was in his hand, only because he knew that they'd be coming faster this time. This time around it was the hit to take place, though he was still baffled by who would want to bury one of his girls, and his best girl to think of it. He ushered her from beneath the lamppost and beside his most seasoned girl when they turned the corner once more in that black Kurama. It was too late. "Shit, run!" He exclaimed and sent her on a shoved start, pointing his handgun at the windshield and wildly firing round after round. He was usually a decent shot; actually one of the best, yet panic had stricken his nerves and he fired like the Diablo's out of Hepburn Heights, riddling the car with bullets, yet hitting no one.

Someone pointed a gun out of the passenger side door and fired on him, sprinkling the ground near him with lead and frightening him into sprinting off. He raced down the sidewalk towards the subway, firing wildly behind him as he did. The Kurama's momentum increased with every passing moment while the driver leapt up onto the curb and floored it, apparent in the sudden gunning of its engines. Everything seemed sluggish about the dreadlock as the adrenaline kicked in. He pulled the trigger, yet a hollowed click was its response, instead of the neighbor-waking explosion that would normally kick a bullet for yards at a time. The station was just ahead, mere feet that needed to be turned into no feet before the driver of the vehicle turned him to a vegetable. As funny as it was, for as close as it was, it took him more than the desired time to leap into the air and over the walls that protruded upwards and invited daily commuters downstairs on any typical morning. However he managed to pull it off he did, the crunching of metal against stonework being music to his ears. However it didn't stop there, the car lurched forward and attempted to crush him, rather making him dead than a vegetable. A graceful leap downward and he was out of harms way, with the Kurama crashing down behind him and him in the subway system. It was said to never ride the subway without some sort of weapon on you at nighttime in Liberty, and the only thing pimp had to his name was a Baretta with an empty clip. Bluffing was a useful skill anyway.

Going within the depths of the system (and hopping the turnstile) he stood on the desert platform, awaiting the next available train to Staunton Island. Hopefully the train car he was in would be just as desert, it was no joking around when it came to survival in Liberty City. A distinct ringing came from his cell phone, a chart-topping song they continuously played on the airwaves of Game Radio by a prominent Westside artist named Madd Dogg. It was cut short however, when Cinnamon's name came up on the caller ID.

"Cinnamon? You aight?" The dreadlock tried to keep it as suave and debonair as he possibly could, which was really not that much of a problem for him. Cinnamon could easily be replaced, he had merely put excess time and effort into her, and any other girl could be trained to service the way she did. There was only something about Cinnamon that made him not beat the shit out of her, as he did some other girls from time-to-time.

"Yeah, I'm okay. Where are you?" Her voice carried with it worry, and the man chuckled for that.

"I'm on the subway, on the way to Staunton Isle."

"Johnny, you know you can't go back to Staunton. Why are you go—," She started, but the man cut into her speech.

"I go wherever I want, whenever I want." The man named Johnny began to grow slightly infuriated at her comment. "I'll see you in the mornin'."

"Wait, Johnny… Think you could come over for the night? I like the way you handled that back there." She cooed into her end of the receiver, nearly turning Johnny over. He'd developed a sort of barrier to the affection of women, knowing exactly when to turn them down, how to turn them down, and how to keep them coming back for more.

"I don't know, I'll see. I'm gonna have to drive all the way from Staunton and all that, baby. I don't even know, there's money to pick up and all that." Johnny rummaged through feigned excuses as the distant, yet distinct echo of a train down the tunnel came to his ears.

"Come on, you never come over here anymore. Just for the night, please." She pleaded through her teeth, whispering promises of a night of hard-earned ecstasy. That was what made him tell her he would come, the pleas. When a man got a woman to plea for what he wanted even more it was truly the genious of the man, or was it really the inner yearnings of a woman. It was a little of both, when you sit down and think about it. For him, this was only one of those long nights at work and he would go home, as the average man does to his wife, though to one of his girls. The other ones were, most likely, already in their own beds after doing their services for the night. He would spend the night with her, only because deep within the recesses of his heart he loved that girl.

The train pulled in and sparse numbers of people exited while he got on, chuckling to himself and lost in thoughts about the reactions of the late night commuters that would find themselves sealed in a train station and stranded until the next one came. Fortunately for him, the car had two Diablos who exited the train when he flashed the chrome-plated Baretta tucked away in his pants. The rest of the trip was nondescript and he hadn't run into anyone who wished to start trouble in Staunton Island. The drive back to Portland in a stolen Esperante had only been stalled by a routine police stop on the Callahan Bridge for a broken taillight, when Johnny had 'accidentally' dropped a stack of cash out of his car window the policeman told him that he could be on his way and within minutes he'd turned up at Cinnamon's lovely abode in Hepburn Heights. It was a lot better than the other apartments, with hers actually having some class in it. It had even better décor than when the Diablos had turned to drag racing to decorate some of the furnished apartments further. The night was still young and Johnny laid his exquisite hat over the bedroom doorknob.

And as far as the late introduction, he's Johnny Wolfe, Uptown Yardie-turned-promoter of prostitution.

Back in the Red Light District a single man stumbled out of the wreckage of a Kurama, blood seeping out the side of his head and smothered across his face. Of course he had left some for the dashboard. ChatterboxFM plays in the background, though he doesn't bother to pay attention to it, nor does the occupants; seeing how they were dead and all.

"Hello, this is Lazlow from ChatterboxFM and you've won a roundtrip, all-expense trip to San Andreas!" 

"R-really?" There was definitely some exhaustion in his voice. Besides it was about one in the morning.

His jet-black hair is matted with perspiration, as he'd never been involved on the receiving end of an accident so devastating. He gathered himself up and stumbles back downwards, hearing that name. That San Andreas, it was about time he went back.

"No, not really. Who gives out prizes at one thirty-two in the morning?" 

_And they cut him off._

Before he went he had a job to do, however. He had to kill the man who did this to him. All he'd wanted to do was to have a little fun, pick up a prostitute and then let him and his good friends take advantage of the twenty-minute increment fees, and then dive in for seconds. However, that had to be cut short by a pimp. A pimp who decided to pull his girl off the street when this man decided he wanted her, and then to shoot at him without reason. With that, he limped off, towards the hospital. It was a good thing the hospital was around the corner, because even the cops hadn't turned up yet. And he'd be damned if he was linked back to the cache of an armory in that Kurama. There had to be at least a quarter-million dollars worth of weapons in that Kurama, not to mention the cocaine he was supposed to be delivering. He was supposed to leave Liberty City behind and take a road trip, then ship out to Los Santos. From there he would lay low in San Fierro and, who knows, maybe end up out in the country racing for pink slips. Like the old days. However that would have to be postponed.

He's known as Fido, Kid, even the ex-hired muscle of the Leone Family. However his name is Claude, a mute ex-con whose lived it up in Liberty City for quite some time.


	2. Chapter 2

Chapter Two: Things That Go Bump in the Night

Being awoken to the sound of Madd Dogg's gruff voice over a hardcore Westside-styled beat was not in Johnny's good grace, especially so early in the morning. He stretched out in a bed that didn't belong to him, but one of his girls, and scanned the room for where the source of the sound lied. Beside him on the dresser that held his possessions for the nighttime while he slumbered. Rubbing the fatigue from his eyes he yawned aloud and answered.

"Yo… Oh, what's good—ain't see you in a minute… what!" And he hopped to his feet, rubbing his head in contemplation. In the bed Cinnamon lay in a serene slumber, unbeknownst of his movements or conversation, but the conversation would continue. "What you mean? You can't handle your own beef out there? I can't come down there right now, but I'll make a return for a weekend or somethin'. I got business to attend to and gotta sort my shit out before I even think of coming out of my way… Yeah, I'm gonna come through though, believe that Junior." And he ended the call, as Cinnamon stirred from her sleep.

"Who was that?" She queried, pulling the sheets tighter around her.

"Just my cousin." Johnny stretched and decided he'd go back out, until Cinnamon made room for him and told him to join her once more.

"Mr. Vercetti… Now I know things are real cool with you now that you've managed to spread your influence from Vice City to Liberty, but there is a serious issue at hand as well. You see, I get word of someone hired to kill you and now I have to warn you that it is not half the man I thought it was. It is a half more than the man I thought he was."

A Hawaiian shirt was his décor, and he sat in a highly comfortable apartment overlooking the club that used to belong to the Leone's. It now belonged to the Vecetti's. "I'm listening."

"Okay, word is that he actually came over here last night and was intercepted by another. I'm not sure who the other is, but he has a girl who actually lives in that building on the 7th or so floor. Apartment 7R, you should check it out because he's in there right now, and I don't know if he's trying to tag you or not."

"Don't worry about it, I'm gonna walk over there myself and see exactly what it is this guy's about. I can't have assassin's on assassin's trying to kill me." Tommy spat into the phone and flipped it closed before heading over to a pump action shotgun he had conveniently poised against a wall near his bed. Long fingers wrapped around the handle and he pumped it on time, to test its reliance. It wasn't something he could really rely on, but it was all he had lying around this apartment and it would have to do. He waltzed out of his apartment, whistling as he trotted the hallway to the room next to his: 7R.

"Hey, you really wanna fuck with Tommy Vecetti? Huh!" He exclaimed in the corridor, bringing some of his curious neighbors out, but they hurriedly returned when they noticed it was a white guy brandishing a shotgun. It was Hepburn Heights after all. When the door cracked open and a pistol pressed against his neck he wasted not time in lifting his 20-gauge to the body of the dreadlock who greeted him.

"Who the fuck is Tommy Vercetti?" The dreadlock couldn't contain his resentment, so he screamed this question.

"I'm Tommy Vercetti, hi by-the-way." Tommy started, and then lowered his shotgun. "I thought you were someone who wanted to kill me, cause someone nearly got killed last night, y'know. I guess this guy who's giving me my information needs to be whacked.

"Last night…" And that was, honestly, the only reason Johnny lowered his gun. "Last night some dude tried to kill me, but I had to put it on him. I came back earlier this morning, but the wreckage was already cleared up. They sure do clean up fast round these parts."

Tommy's eyes narrowed and his gun was, this time, aimed at the face of the dreadlock. "You are the one who's trying to kill me!"

"Don't even try it. Look down." And when Tommy followed the command of this man he saw that it was nothing more than a verbal guise for diversion. The gun came upwards, but he could not hear the clanking of its mechanics as he did countless other times he'd simply sidestepped death. When he gazed down the barrel the bullet didn't lock into place before it's ejection, but then it wasn't getting ejected. Instead the gun rammed into his face, sending him sprawling backwards and out into the corridor, still clutching his shotgun.

With a single squeeze lead sprayed into the apartment, but his foe had already seen that one coming. That annoyed Tommy, along with the senseless screaming of the girl who was with him and of the occupants of the building. Tommy scrambled to his feet and leapt into the apartment, dodging round after round that was squeezed off from the pistol. Luckily Johnny had the sense to pick up some ammunition on his way out to Staunton. Then came the hollowed click. Unluckily, he only had enough money for a single clip.

Tommy screamed and leapt out from behind a wall, his face twisted into anguish, rapture, and agony simultaneously. The shotgun, however never blew out any buckshot, though Tommy did squeeze the trigger more than once. Click after click, signifying the empty chambers of the gun, was what echoed through the apartment.

"Leave. You have to leave Liberty now." Tommy finally broke the awkward silence, considering the fact that he'd just had a shootout inside of an apartment against a man in his underwear. "Otherwise you'd be dead before you could even dial the police. I live right next door, you sure you wanna try this again?"

The only convincing it took was a trip to the next apartment; there about the mantelpiece was a portrait of Tommy back when he was in Vice City with Lance Vance, an 80's edition Infernus in the backdrop.

"I'm still not leaving, well not yet." Johnny stated, waving his pistol around as though it posed a threat for anyone at all. "I mean, I gotta leave Liberty, but now I'm stayin'. You wanna shoot at me and shit."

"You remember the man you thought you killed last night? Well he's alive and he wants both of us dead." Tommy stated, matter-of-factly.

"Wait—I didn't kill anybody! They killed themselves."

"Y'know what, do something for me. This is all I want you to do. That man was supposed to deliver weapons, big weapons to San Andreas. I just want you to take over his route, under me. Y'know, wire some of the money back and them you'll be out of Liberty and I could deal with this guy myself, cause I really don't want you in my way and I know he's coming for you."

"Tommy, we just had a SHOOTOUT in my girls HOUSE—no in her APARTMENT, and now you want me to deliver some weapons to San Andreas for you?" Johnny ran a single hand through his locks and looked back to Tommy. "I want fifty percent."

"Are you mad? There are no negotiations here, you get five percent and you shut up."

"Sixty-five percent."

"Who says I even need you to do this, I have people that can ship out or even fly out. All I'm saying is you're doing this five percent."

"Tommy, I'm not as dumb as I may seem to you. You need me out of the city, and unless I bring that shipment for you I won't be leaving the city. And for whatever reason you want me out of the city, it's not happening unless I get fifty percent."

Tommy's visage twisted in contemplation and in awe of the guy's ability to catch on, maybe in time they'd be well off together, but for now things had to be moved along.

"Twenty-five."

"No, fifty. Dick."

"C'mon, you're hurting my shit. Thirty-five."

"I'm gonna stoop to forty-five."

"Nah, thirty-five."

"Just cause I stoop to forty-five your gonna try and take advantage, fifty."

"Alright, forty-five. Jerk."

Johnny had always claimed his best character finery was his negotiation skills, he could have written a book on it. Even though he would have to leave Liberty at the hands of Tommy Vercetti he had a bigger motive in mind, not to mention Tommy's motives. After receiving instruction and telling Cinnamon that he had to leave, even ducking arrest upon leaving the building behind (as numerous cops had come to find some crazy white guy and a black guy in his underwear), he was well on his way to San Andreas.

"So, Tommy. Is he leaving the city?"

"Yeah, I just sent him on a joyride."

"Great, just remember he has to be killed after we deal with Claude."

"Bye."


End file.
